


In the Dark

by JustJasper



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, MTMTE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 00:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19096072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: Tailgate's okay. He's fine.





	In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished s1 of MTMTE, I know basically nothing about transformers outside of it, but I'm having a great old time playing fast and loose with these robot feelings I'm having.

Cyclonus snores.

He’d argue - no, he’s state as a fact that brokered no argument, even if Tailgate was only trying to tease - that transformers do not have lungs, and therefore do not snore. And he’s right, on a technicality.

But he does make sounds when he’s resting, beyond the sounds of a body living, the background noise of a metallic form that everyone has tuned out since they were built. In the night, when he’s asleep on his cot a few feet away, there’s a rhythmic whir-clack that comes from somewhere about Cyclonus’ throat and jaw. Maybe something about the way he lies, about how his mandible sits against his faceplate, about the gears…

The point is, that Cyclonus snores. Except tonight, nothing. Which means Tailgate is lying there awake, and Cyclonus is lying there awake, and it’s completely dark because Cyclonus likes the darkness, and—

“This is stupid,” Tailgate says.

Cyclonus stays silent. Not asleep.

“You're stupid,” Tailgate tries.

Nothing. He really thought that would have got _something_.

The silence stretches on, for what it can really be called silence; the Lost Light hums all around them. One of Tailgate's abdominal panels is warping slightly under the pressure of a slight misfit during the repair, and he should get it fixed in the morning. Cyclonus is not snoring.

“I'm okay,” Tailgate says, into the darkness.

Movement, then. Slowly, Cyclonus rises; joints almost silent for how deliberate it is when he sits up, sits sideways on his cot. As Tailgate sits up too – a little less smoothly, his middle's still a little new-feeling – he can see Cyclonus' red eyes in the dark focused on him.

“I really am okay. You saved me.”

He knows he worries. Tailgate feels keenly responsible for Cyclonus worrying about him, like he ruined the bot's perfectly fine system of caring about beliefs and causes and not _people_. Or maybe his self-loathing chip's just playing up again.

When Cyclonus speaks, it has presence. That's apparent especially here in the dark.

“And if it hadn't worked?”

Tailgate shrugs – a weird habit he picked up from Swerve, who applies the movement liberally to his everyday dealings, which he picked up in turn from some fleshy race – but the move is lost in the near darkness, just their optics and a strip of dim light at the base of the door.

“I did ask you to finish me off, remember?”

It's the wrong thing to say, Tailgate knows as panic sets on him immediately as Cyclonus gets up.

“I mean—well, it worked, I'm fine, I'm okay.”

He doesn't go for the door, but only closes the distance between them. In the dark, Tailgate braces for whatever this is, and doesn't dare to hope.

Cyclonus is all angles – well, they're transformers, everyone is angles he supposes. But Tailgate is small and squat, boxy, and perfectly okay with that, thanks. Cyclonus is what organics mean when they say _angular_ – his face, his horns, his hands. Claws.

Tailgate has to fight not to flinch when Cyclonus puts his hand against his repaired middle, each sharp fingertip going _clink_ against the new plates. It's not that he doesn't want to be touched, but this is... new. Cyclonus is sure, every action without hesitation. Every touch is firm, direct, purposeful.

This is tender.

“I do not want to lose you.”

He spreads his hand out against Tailgate's middle, the span of it almost enough to cover the width of the patched wound.

“Hey—” when Tailgate tips his head up, Cyclonus' face is illuminated by the blue light of his optics. All stern angles, a spark-deep intensity that's always suited him. “Hey,” he says, more softly. “I'm okay. I'm sticking around. You can't get rid of me that easy.”

Wordlessly, Cyclonus lowers his head until the sharp angle of his brow rests against the flat of Tailgate's. He hums, something low and long from where his vocal synthesiser sits, and if this wasn't clearly a _moment_ Tailgate would absolutely tease him for purring like a greased engine.

As it stands, he's happy for the moment to be; in the dark and the quiet, where he's okay and Cyclonus doesn't snore.


End file.
